


What We Say in the Dark

by ThePaintedScorpionDoll



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Gen, Platonic Male/Male Relationships, barnes and noble
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-21
Updated: 2014-05-21
Packaged: 2018-01-26 01:31:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1669733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThePaintedScorpionDoll/pseuds/ThePaintedScorpionDoll
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Darkness isn't always a bad thing. Sometimes, that's where we can feel the safest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What We Say in the Dark

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by headcanon posted to the [Imagine Bucky tumblr](http://tmblr.co/mPKOFgWKbid0Qmb1NyKtjCQ) in which Steve learns Russian and [encounters some unforeseen consequences.](http://imaginebucky.tumblr.com/post/82496973923/imagine-bucky-and-natasha-whispering-behind)

It isn’t the sound of Bucky talking in his sleep that is keeping Steve awake at night. If that were all, he would have solved the problem with some high-quality earplugs a long time ago. Besides, having grown up in the city means a certain amount of sound is almost required for whatever amount of peaceful night’s rest he can catch. Not that he would know what a typical one is like, given the circumstances of his life. So no, the _sound_ of Bucky talking in his sleep is not the cause of Steve Rogers’s current bout of sleeplessness.

It’s what Bucky actually _says_.

Rather, at first, it was the tone of his friend’s words, at alternate times so panicked and then so sinister, during his phases of dreaming. The actual words were lost on Steve; strings of unfamiliar syllables to his untrained ears. It was Russian, that much he knew, accustomed as he had become to hearing it flutter back and forth between his friend and Natasha—usually at his expense. Harmless phrases, they swore, while grinning and sharing knowing looks. He could guess at a few of their conversations. Shared comments about how he looks when he’s mad. Exchanges about his need for routines. His orderliness. Inside jokes. Harmless, sure, but constant enough to set Steve on the path to personal education.

Now, as he lies awake listening to the stream of unconsciousness flowing from Bucky’s lips, he almost wishes he hadn’t bothered.

“No! N-no, please— Don’t make me do it, please, I can’t… I-I won’t. _I won’t!_ Please don’t—don’t make me do it. I can’t—I _can’t_. You see? _I can’t—!_ ”

Steve feels his chest go asthma-tight. _So it’s going to be one of those nights._

“Wh-why are you doing this? Please stop. _Stop!_ Let me go. I’m— I can’t do this. Please.”

 _He sounds like a child._ Steve’s chest feels even tighter. _Like a little kid who just wants to go home._

And it hurts to think about, the knowledge that Bucky is reliving these things that were done to him; it hurts to hear his friend beg and plead and even cry alone in the darkness of his bedroom. It fills Steve with a deep guilt that he cannot describe. But there are other nights where Bucky’s voice turns hard and his words are full of malice. There are nights where he taunts the phantoms who beg him for mercy, where he giggles over his twisted victories. Those nights fill Steve with a chilling fear. It isn’t from any concerns of personal safety, no; rather, it’s the reminder that whatever Bucky became in those captured years still lurks inside his head. All of those memories, that training; all of those horrible deeds, those wasted lives…

Saying that it makes Steve’s guilt worse is like saying Tony Stark is rich.

Ask him which nights he dreads worse, however…

“Please just kill me. I can’t—I can’t do this anymore. I can’t—I won’t, so just… Just, please… _Please!_ ” It takes Steve a moment to register the sounds of Bucky breaking into tears. “Please let me die. Just…just let me die. Please…”

He hovers in the doorway, unable to remember even getting out of bed, much less going down the hall to Bucky’s room. Not that this is the first time this has happened. Usually, he stands there, heart hammering in his tightened chest until Bucky goes quiet and still in his bed. But tonight…

“Bucky?”

“N— Let me just—”

“Bucky.” Cautiously, Steve puts a hand to his friends shoulder. “Bucky—hey—! Hey. It’s just me. It’s me. It’s Steve. You’re safe here—”

“Steve?” Bucky’s voice is rough, heavy from sleep. “Steve.”

“Yeah. Yeah, it’s just me.”

“Steve…”

“Yeah.”

The dim light streaming through the blinds shows the drowsy confusion on Bucky’s face. He blinks. They both ignore the tears that race down his cheeks. Slowly, he releases Steve from his grip. He lowers the knife away from his old friend’s throat. Steve holds out his hand; he puts the knife on the bedside table. Neither one turns on the lamp. Bucky sits up in bed, hands in his lap and head bowed. Steve touches the edge of the bed.

“Can I—?”

Bucky gives a short nod. Steve sits. The pass time in silence for a while. And then—

“I was dreaming.” He scoffs, shakes his head. “I wasn’t dreaming. I’ve been… _reliving_ things. Everything.”

And what can Steve say to that? Nothing. Nothing at all.

“I still don’t quite know who I am,” Bucky says. “I don’t think I’ll ever regain that—who I was. So what’s left? I’m just some kind of monster. Not even a good one anymore. I’m… _broken_.”

They sit in silence. A hundred words fill Steve’s throat. He swallows them back. He reaches out, intent solely on offering a reassuring touch; then, thinking better of it, curls his fingers around Bucky’s hand and takes it between his own. There is unfamiliar roughness in those familar fingertips, in the palm that so often clapped on the shoulder…but there is warmth there, too. There is opportunity. Hope.

Bucky slides his hand out of Steve’s. He shifts on the bed, clears his throat; mumbles some half-apology about keeping his friend up. The moment, whatever it was, is gone—is in the process of going—

“I could stay.”

Steve blinks, startled by the sound of his own voice. Bucky looks up.

“What?”

“With you. Here.” Steve takes in a breath. “Just until you fall asleep. Just to make sure—”

 _—that you actually get to rest,_ is what he wants to say. But he doesn’t. He just sits there on the edge of the bed, half-ready to return to his own bedroom at the first sign of refusal.

“Okay.”

The response is soft, almost unheard. For a moment, Steve wonders if he heard correctly, but then Bucky nods slowly and reaches for the stretch of sheets covering the unused side. Steve rises, rounds the foot of the bed. He half-sits against the headboard; a pillow at his lower back, legs straight out in front of him. Bucky lies on his side, facing away from him.

“It’s just ‘til I fall asleep,” he says.

“Just ‘til you fall asleep,” Steve imperfectly echoes.

They exist together in the dark, in the silence; in it, time only becomes relevant to Steve when attempting to figure out when Bucky’s breathing became so steady and even. Occasionally, there is movement on his side, some minor adjustment or another. Little noises bubble up from his lips. Otherwise, he is still. Quiet. His breath comes and goes like the sea. Eventually, even Steve succumbs to instinct and drifts again to sleep, the half-promise to leave forgotten like some fleeting dream from another night.

It is the most rest either of them gets for the first time in a long time.


End file.
